I’ll keep it simple. Black coffee. Nothing special.
Medium size though.
However, every time I went to go pick up my coffee on Monday it was “Horace”, Tuesday “Morris” and by Friday I heard “Boris”. There’s also something about reciting my name aloud at the counter too.
It happens in what feels like thirty seconds and POOF! You’re someone else. Except now I’ve entered into this existential crisis of what the fuck.
Horace has been my name for over forty years. Mother knew better than to pick anything outside of that. My name would become its own hang up.
Funny enough, I was never named Horatio, let alone Horatious Maximus, Defender of the Roman Empire. Though I’m happy about that fact.. Seriously, mum decided on what I like to now call a name that sounds like some fucked up internet scribble test for children with Sharpies.
Les enfants Terribles is a French thing- that I don’t understand at all. I line up everyday outside of the coffee shop downstairs from my apartment with what seems to be a never-ending immigration of caffeine deprived zombie zucchinis. Take my morning ritual for what it is.
I love laughing every morning. Regular socially comfortable humans tend to scream out monikers that are morphed into some type of weird alien rap slang. Straight to the barista I went to confidently put in my order.
Social anxiety sufferer here! Staring directly into their eyes is life changing. “Medium black coffee.
And my name is Horace.”
He nodded and proceeded to make my coffee. Well I thought so. I bitch about how long this takes ya know but after the treatment I received I didn’t see any other way than to suffer through it.
What felt like hours I heard someone yell out my name. “Horus! Your coffee is ready!”
At this point why would I continue to be astonished by some lowkey dumb ass teenager.
Marching up to the barista who I mustered up all types of skeptical feelings towards when he screamed “YOU A HORUS” was worth the risk. “It’s close enough,” I responded. I didn’t know what to expect but was pleasantly surprised when he handed me the cup.
Patting myself on the back for having that thought, why did I think it would be anything but close. “HEY HorUS!” Who would’ve thought? As some bitter soul I’ve now graduated to the sky god of ancient legends.
Compared to “Horace?” With an inflection at the end that questions if my name is even real. Children these days.. Why is it so difficult for others to learn my name?
If Bob spells magic why is it so hard for the general public to understand something so simple as phonetics. Bob is three letters and one syllable for Christ sakes. Ordering directly to the bartender will NOT solve people yelling
“MEDUM BLK CK!
Having some type of alter call when your name is called like your at a clinic getting surgery sounds impressive, but it’s actually a lot of thugs running into each other thinking the clinic is some sort of mosh pit filled with strangers just waiting to recite the most mundane task.. Instruction. “It’s ‘riz”, in Beef!”
If one out of every three people thought figured out how to use what I like to call BES.
Or Bullet Energy Spell, also known as: laughing at someone until they cry. Half the time I hear my name pronounced ‘Blobe’. Blob?
Blobbe? Bloopy? In Canada they just laugh at me and tell me it sounds adult.
Adult as in parental units. Playing around like science is pouring out of my body isn’t going to fix the chaotic shit show we are. Is chaos optimal?
Having strangers yell at you with no clue who the hell you are allows you to break the rules of social decency. Magical beings must have tossed on some of that fairy dust on my coffee cup that now reads:
‘Blend Contains Jacuzzi Since: Name’
Realization. Please blame Harry Potter for me yelling at child services, but coffee shop baristas can barely pronounce more complex names than “Horace”.
With syllables attached to pre-made requests for your caramel VANILLA LATTE. “Venti half-caf coconut milk machiatto with extra ice and a shot of caramel PLEASE” becomes so much easier to say rather then my actual name. I’ve wanted to purchase one of those name tags you clip onto your shirts or even worse traipse around with a tiny whiteboard attached to my hip.
Both of these options written my name clearly display solve nothing but make it easier to deal with the embarrassment of my daily christening. Which is why I’ve learned to accept it. “Hey Harris!” I approach to grab my coffee as the café erupts in cheers of “Norris.” I’ve even answered to “Maurice” and “Forest”.
The funniest one I’ve been called so far? Walrus. If they seen me in their sleep they could probably get away with that one.
Calling me something so wildly creative based off the description of my sleepy eyes in the morning. Accepting my fate of never truly knowing who I’ll wake up as each day is freeing in a way. For thirty seconds I’m someone else while I wait.
We live in a world where we describe ourselves by profession which is specific, marketable words. Chaos is beautiful to me. There is method to the madness, but there’s also small bursts of chaos within those bullshits orders.
Last month something happened to me that was the most chaotic thing I’ve ever experienced. I threw my order and my name at the barista and she smiled. “Horace?” She said pleasantly.
“That’s my grandfathers name!”
She wrote it on my cup with elegant cursive. 10 minutes later she called my name HORUS and I felt damn good. The following day there was a different barista working but when I told her my name and received my coffee.
I became Horcrux. Okay, I get it now. Thank you baristas.
You wizards and witches of beautiful ridiculous names. Underpaid? Overtime?
Yes.
But you make our names magical. Plus you never forget that Karen wants six ice cubes, not THREE.
You’ve solidified my beliefs that as a human we were not meant to be great at something. We were meant to suck at things, but suck artistically. Honestly though, waking up and hearing “Horus” slap on Ken while yelling like your five makes my day better.
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